


There's a Joke Here Somewhere (and it's on me)

by ivoryline



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Intrigue, M/M, Murder Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Okie!Aziraphale, Oklahoma, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unreliable Narrator, Yankee!Crowley, aziraphale and crowley play detective, incompetent small town cops, this is a murder mystery but the deaths are off screen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivoryline/pseuds/ivoryline
Summary: A series of disappearances seems to coincide with Crowley’s arrival in the small town of Marlow. He forms a tentative friendship with the town’s clerk, Ezra, and the two of them find themselves wrapped up in the mystery. Can they work together to unravel Marlow’s secrets or will suspicion, paranoia, and old skeletons put them in mortal danger?written for the GO Events Mystery AU Event
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 33
Collections: GO-Events Good Omens Mystery AU Event Works





	1. Bad Dreams Despite Your Best Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> i am so so excited to present my submission for the mystery au event! thank you so much bisasterdi and forineffablereasons for organizing this event!
> 
> i have just a few notes before we get started. so this is set in oklahoma because i've lived here for a very long time and i feel like it's a criminally untapped mystery setting. all the town names i use are real towns but i've moved them from their real life locations to the western part of the state where the fic takes place. the town and location descriptions are a sort of mashup of places i'm familiar with. i felt like i should mention that so any other okies, or anyone familiar with oklahoma, don't get confused by my geographic cut-and-pasting.

Anthony J. Crowley is running from himself. 

The problem with that is no matter how far he runs, he’s always there. He’s his own spectre, his own haunted house. He dresses his creaky floorboard bones in sharp cut jackets and covers his grimy window pane eyes in designer shades. He drives and walks and lives with a sense of urgency. No matter what he does, he’s still the shadow person at the edge of his vision.

As he pulls into the driveway of a one bedroom, dusty blue rental home that’s been standing since the Great Depression Crowley thinks maybe this time he’s run too far. This shitty little backwoods town in the western plains of Oklahoma isn’t for him. Ten minutes south of the highway and another twenty minutes west on the back roads and Crowley nearly misses the place. The sign at the edge of town that announces you’ve entered Marlow city limits is so faded and riddled with dents from pot shots as to nearly be unreadable and Crowley has to do a U-turn while trying to not back into a ditch. 

Marlow certainly isn’t a city. It’s barely even a town. There’s a smattering of houses and a handful of trailer houses on the eastern side of town just past the train tracks. There’s a post office with a flickering street light in the parking lot. There’s a fire station that sits empty a great deal of the year, the town relying on volunteer firefighters during wildfire season and the rare structure fire. Marlow has a co-op and a decommissioned cotton gin. The great tin building sits and rusts and menaces on the southern edge of town. There’s three empty buildings on the short stretch of Main Street that used to be shops at some point in the town’s 150 year history. A derelict playground wastes away across the street from the post office. A small building at the end of Main puts on airs by calling itself town hall. There’s a gas station with defunct pumps and a sign advertising dinner specials. There’s a handful of street lamps at best and not a single stop light.

Marlow is not for Crowley. But it’s not Chicago, so Crowley will settle in like an invasive species. 

The sun has just set and Crowley pauses on his new doorstep. The street lights pop as they blink off and on, unsure if it’s even worth it to illuminate the cracked asphalt. August is dying and the cicada’s funeral dirge is deafening. He paid the deposit on the rental sight unseen and he’s half afraid of what lies behind the screen door. He tells himself it doesn’t matter and yanks the screen door open. It sticks then swings free with a vengeance. The front door is white and coated in dirt and red earth. It sticks, too.

Crowley flips the light switch and swears when nothing happens. He never got around to figuring out the utilities. The flashlight on his phone reveals scuffed wooden floors and the heels of his boots click hollowly on them. He takes a turn about his new home to orientate himself. A small living room with an old window unit. A white tiled kitchen with appliances thirty years out of date and cricket corpses on the countertops. A bathroom with faded pink features. A bedroom with a view of the unfenced backyard, a tiny closet, and another window unit. 

Crowley brings in his five moving boxes and a duffle bag. Those contain all his worldly possessions. Or at least the ones he felt worth bringing on his mad dash away from himself. 

The first thing he does is dig out his multitool and remove the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet and shove it under the sink. The second thing he does is pull out a black comforter from one of the boxes and spread it out on the floor in the bedroom. He kicks his boots off and lays down, his duffel bag serving as a pillow. 

Crowley stares up at the ceiling and tries to not make out shapes in the shadows. A dog barks, the summer insects sing, and Crowley does not sleep.

* * *

Crowley meets an angel the following morning. Crowley’s standing in town hall, the bell over the door echoing around with his headache. The cork bulletin board is overflowing with business cards and flyers. There’s a counter with a series of multicolored paper stacks and a black plastic paper tray. Behind the counter and in front of the truly ancient desktop sits the angel. He’s wearing a baby blue button down and an honest to God bowtie. He’s leaned back in his desk chair, blonde hair curling wildly and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He’s absorbed in a book and totally oblivious to the world around him. The thing Crowley calls a heart makes a racket in his ribcage.

Crowley steps up to the counter and idly flips through the stack of canary yellow forms nearest to him. The angel hasn’t noticed him yet so Crowley clears his throat in a bid for his attention. He graces Crowley with a glance over the top of his book. His eyes are a clear blue. A cloudless summer sky.

“If you’re here to advertise just stick it up on the corkboard,” the angel says and goes back to his book.

“Not here to advertise,” Crowley says, “I just moved in and I need my utilities turned on.”

That gets the angel’s attention. He sticks a finger in between the pages to mark his place and looks up at Crowley, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. He stares at Crowley for a moment like he’s a piece of modern art he doesn’t quite understand. Then suddenly his expression clears and he’s smiling and Crowley is fucked.

“Oh! Over on Willow, right? Deirdre mentioned that Josie had finally found a tenant,” he says, slipping a receipt in as a bookmark. He stands up and brushes the wrinkles out of his shirt. He starts pulling papers from the counter seemingly at random. He taps the stack in his hands against the counter to straighten them then thumbs through them. When he’s satisfied that all is in order he hands the papers to Crowley and plucks a pen from the holder and hands that to Crowley as well. Crowley squints down at the tiny print.

“What is all this?” he says.

“Change of address, city water form, the electric form, and a list of community events over at the Baptist church,” the angel tells him. He has a slow southern drawl that Crowley should hate but he absolutely doesn’t. A bit bewildered, he looks through the forms and pulls out the church flyer.

“Won’t be needing this, but thanks.” 

The angel takes the paper and sets it back in the appropriate pile with no fuss.

“Not a Baptist, then? I really only go for the pancake suppers myself. I’ll just need to see your license so I can submit the request to the utility companies.”

Crowley digs his wallet out of his back pocket and hands over his license. The angel studies it for a moment as he sits back down.

“Alright, Anthony, I should have this taken care of in a jiffy,” he grins up at Crowley before propping his license up in the grooves of his keyboard. It’s quiet but for the clacking of keys, the scrawl of pen on paper, and the hum of an air conditioning unit.

“Crowley.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s Crowley. I prefer Crowley.”

“Okie dokie, Crowley.”

There’s that smile again and Crowley tries very hard not to laugh. He definitely doesn’t belong anywhere where “okie dokie” is a part of the everyday vernacular. The man goes back to typing and Crowley clears his throat.

“What should I call you?” Crowley asks. The typing stops again and the angel looks pointedly over to the right hand side of the counter. Crowley follows his gaze and sees a golden nameplate with the name Ezra Fell engraved on it. There’s a faded children’s sticker of a sun wearing sunglasses peeling away after his name. 

Crowley doesn’t blush, but he does focus all of his attention to filling out the rest of his forms. When he’s finished he hands them to Ezra who then fights with a fax machine. Crowley goes over to the bulletin board for something to do while he waits. He ignores a flyer advertising a farm equipment auction, the several different business cards for lawn care, and a lost dog notice. He reads over the fire ban notice briefly and snaps a photo with his phone of a help wanted ad for a junkyard. 

The door clangs open and in walks the most colorful person Crowley has ever seen. She’s older than Crowley by a decade or so, but her eclectic fashion sense says otherwise. Her hair is a bright orangey sort of red and curled and teased within an inch of its life. She’s wearing cheetah print leggings, espadrilles, a bright red cardigan, and clunky jewelry that makes an unholy racket with every movement. Her handbag hangs from the crook of one arm, her car keys on a very busy keychain dangle from her limp wrist. Her other arm has a cellphone pressed to her ear.

“We’re not getting new uniforms this year. No, the football boys are getting new equipment for the weight room and that took most of the All Sports budget. Lord knows why, they haven’t won a game since we got bumped up to eleven man God bless ‘em. Hang on,” she pauses and presses her phone down on her shoulder. “Hiya, sweetheart. Ready for lunch?” 

The last bit appears to be directed at Ezra, who’s feeding the last form through the fax machine. He gathers up the papers and returns to his desk.

“Just about,” he says, searching his desk for something, “I’ll be ready as soon as I get Crowley here all set up.”

Of course, that directs the woman’s attention on to Crowley. She gives him the same sort of confused look that Ezra first gave him.

“I’ll call ya back here in a minute, Debbie. Uh-huh, yeah. Okay, bye.” She shoves her phone into her purse and props her elbow up on the counter. “Who’s Crowley and who are you setting him up with?” She winks at Crowley and Crowley immediately decides he likes her. 

“Tracy,” Ezra says with a severe look her way, “this is Crowley. He’s just moved in over on Willow. Crowley this is Tracy, she’s the English teacher over in Rush Springs. She’s also the cheer coach so be careful or she’ll have you making posters before you know it.” 

“He looks like he’s no stranger to glitter, I’m sure he could handle it,” she says and extends her hand. It’s a dainty thing with French tipped acrylics and not at all posed like any handshake Crowley is familiar with. He takes the tips of her fingers and she gives his hand a brief squeeze before letting go. 

“Big fan of glitter, me,” Crowley says, “especially when June comes around.”

Tracy tosses her head back and laughs. 

“Oh, I like you. Not from around here, though, are ya?”

“Nahh,” he drawls, “up north.”

“Oh, God, a yuppie. Well, we all have our faults.” 

Ezra snorts and beckons Crowley over to the counter. He hands back Crowley’s license and tells him his utilities should be on in the next couple of hours. That’s about Crowley’s limit for socializing and Ezra looks keen to go to lunch so Crowley makes himself scarce without a backwards glance.

* * *

That night Crowley sits on his front porch and chain smokes. He watches an armadillo amble through his neighbor’s yard and listens to June bugs bouncing off his porch light. He had called the junkyard earlier about the job posting and the owner, Shadwell, had answered. He’d had a thick accent and very little patience for Crowley’s attempts at understanding him, but he told Crowley to come around in the morning ready for work. 

He sees someone leaving town hall. He doesn’t think it’s Ezra, they look to be too tall and too broad, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. Whoever it is climbs into a golf cart and then they’re gone. Seems a bit late to be doing business, but what does Crowley know. 

Crowley stubs his cigarette out on the cracked concrete step and tosses it off to the side. He tells himself he’ll come back and pick them all up once he acquires a trash can. In his bedroom, stripped down to his boxers and sprawled out on his makeshift bed, he doubts he’ll get any sleep. An hour before dawn he’s proven wrong.

Lost to an uneasy sleep, he fails to hear the faint scream two doors down.


	2. Our Days Were Never Numbered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They get a little more work done on the Silverado in the afternoon under the watchful eyes of a flock of grackles. At the end of the day Shadwell hands Crowley a check and Crowley mourns the state of his fingernails._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley uses they/them pronouns to refer to Beelzebub (Beelze in this fic) because he isn't sure which pronouns are correct, but later on Beelze will use she/her to refer to herself.

Crowley shows up to the junkyard around 9 o’clock. The junkyard turns out to be a field behind a run down farm house with cracked white siding and boarded up windows on the western edge of town. There’s a man in an old rocking chair on the front porch. He’s wearing a cowboy hat that’s seen better days and has a twelve gauge laid across his lap. This is apparently Crowley’s new boss. 

“Shit,” Shadwell says when he sees Crowley in his tight black jeans. It comes out with far too many syllables and sounding more like “shee-yit” but Crowley gets the gist. “Go on back, God hep ya. Newt’ll tell ya what needs done.” 

Newt turns out to be a helpless looking twenty-something in a stained grey jumpsuit. He’s holding what’s apparently an alternator and he’s got goat heads stuck to his hems. He doesn’t comment on Crowley’s choice of clothes but he does suggest a pair of sturdy boots.

Crowley’s task for the day is to pull out the functioning parts from an ‘88 Silverado. Now, Crowley likes cars. He likes fast cars. He likes sleek cars. He likes cars with leather interiors and bluetooth and rear view cameras. Crowley can like cars all he wants, but he has no clue what’s going on under the hood. 

Newt is a patient sort, thankfully. He takes the time to teach Crowley all the odds and ends and Crowley does his best to commit it all to memory. Around lunch time Newt manages to mildly electrocute himself on a battery that should have been dead and they take that as their cue to break for sandwiches.

Shadwell serves them sweet tea that would send a diabetic into shock and pimento cheese sandwiches. Crowley has never heard of pimento cheese before, but he’s not in a position to turn down a free meal. It’s awful and sticks to his teeth.

They get a little more work done on the Silverado in the afternoon under the watchful eyes of a flock of grackles. At the end of the day Shadwell hands Crowley a check and Crowley mourns the state of his fingernails. 

Crowley’s on his way to his car when he spots a patrol car. It’s a Crown Vic, which he thought had gone out of vogue. The officer rolls his window down and wolf whistles at Crowley. Crowley closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before sauntering over to the patrol car. 

“Alright?” Crowley asks and stuffs his hands in his pockets. The cop is pale in the way a washed up corpse is. His eyes are so brown they may as well be black and his hair is white and brittle as straw. His right cheek is pockmarked and red where he had obviously been bothering it.

“You’re new, ain’t ya?” the cop asks. He gives Crowley a smarmy grin.

“Yep,” Crowley offers, popping the ‘p’. Crowley’s not the biggest fan of law enforcement at the best of times, but he especially isn’t after a long day of digging around in a rusted old farm truck. 

“I figgered so. Can spot a yank a mile away.”

“Right.”

“Hastur,” he says, tapping his badge with a jagged fingernail, “Ligur’s night shift. Sharp as tacks, we are, so don’t think we’ll put up with any funny business. It’s Anthony Crawley, right?”

“Crowley, yeah.”

“Sure. Best behavior, Crawley.” 

Hastur rolls his window up and pulls a U-turn. Crowley stands there for a moment in the dust cloud and hopes the crime rate in Marlow was low enough not to necessitate that idiot. 

Crowley uses an app to deposit Shadwell’s check and decides he has enough to grab a bite to eat at, unfortunately, the gas station. He parks next to two identical white pickup trucks and prepares himself for the worst. 

The gas station appears to be a conglomerate of several different businesses. There’s the typical gas station fare. Chips, candy, car chargers. There’s also metal racks with DVDs for rent. A cursory glance shows movies that are at least six years out of date at best, over a decade at worst. There’s restaurant booths and a handwritten menu above the cash register.

Standing at the register is a young woman engrossed in her phone. She’s got long brown hair and a fashion sense more suited to a new age shop. Her deep blue dress has long sleeves and there’s no way she isn’t melting in it. Crowley studies the menu for a moment before stepping up to the register. 

“Uh, can I get a plain cheeseburger and fries?”

The girl looks up at Crowley and furrows her brows.

“If you’re just passing through there’s a McDonald’s just off the highway over in Clinton. Clinton’s a shithole but it’s cheaper,” she tells him. She jerks her phone up and takes a quick photo before tapping away on the screen. 

“Not passing through. Just want a plain cheeseburger and fries,” he tells her. She lowers her phone and cocks an eyebrow. Crowley considers investing in a nametag. It would say “Yes, I live here. Yes, I’m just as confused as you are”. His footing in this speck of a town is shaky enough as it is. Too many upsets to the foundation and Crowley will be gone before his motor has properly cooled. 

“Sure thing, babe,” she tells him after a pause. She pulls up the calculator app on her phone and does some quick addition before yelling over her shoulder, “Sarah! Cheeseburger with no fixin’s and fries!”

There’s an affirmative shout from somewhere in the depths of the gas station and the counter girl tells Crowley his total. He hands over his card and signs the receipt before sliding into a booth that is somehow both sticky and greasy. The two old men in the corner booth barely spare him a glance.

Crowley is picking at his food when someone new enters the gas station. The burger is so greasy he’s half afraid it’ll slip right out of the basket and make a run for it and the man is tall and imposing and grey. He’s wearing a suit in a way that it’s clear he thinks he looks very important, but in reality the jacket is ill-fitting and the fabric impersonating a scarf looks arrogant beyond belief. His hair is stiff and he smells of hairspray and cheap cologne and his ruler-straight smile is painfully insincere. He raises a hand to the counter girl and orders a cup of coffee with an accent like molasses and takes the booth closest to the door. 

Crowley watches the man out of a sense of boredom. His fries are going cold so he starts eating them two at a time. The arrogant man’s back is to Crowley but he can see the man typing rapidly on his phone. Crowley’s just finished his fries when another person walks in. They’re short statured with a messy hack of black hair. They wear a suit far better than the arrogant man and they order chicken fried steak. They take a seat across from the arrogant man. 

Crowley finds himself interested, now, more than he cares to be. Their eyes are pale and washed out, a color Crowley can’t easily identify. Their expression is severe, their body language an odd cross-section of defensive and aggressive. The arrogant man’s opposite. Crowley’s burger is half-eaten when he abandons it. The severe person is eating their food with a ferocity that kills his appetite. 

“Beelze,” the arrogant man says. He sounds affronted in a bored sort of way. 

“Gabriel,” they respond, obviously mocking. They scoop up a forkful of gravy and shove it in their mouth. The fork comes away clean and clatters onto the plate. 

“I think we should hold a town hall meeting,” Gabriel says, locking his phone and setting it face down onto the table. Beelze sneers. 

“That’s the last thing we should do,” they say, “just let me handle it.”

“Just let you handle it?” Gabriel says. Crowley can see him lean back, the straight line of his shoulders setting his teeth on edge. 

“Yes. I am handling it,” they grit out. They look dangerous now. All sharp edges, a knife halfway drawn. 

“Really, because-” Gabriel starts.

“I don’t need some half-assed politician telling me how to do my job. Daddy’s money can’t solve everything.”

Crowley has heard enough. He’s heard enough of that to last him a lifetime. He jerks out of his seat, basket in hand. He thrusts his leftovers at the counter girl and is out of the gas station before the pair at the booth by the door can acknowledge him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we get to meet some more characters in the game i'm devising!
> 
> i used to work in clinton and it was the worst so yes i will be petty about it in my fic. marlow, on the other hand, is bigger than i've repurposed it and actually rather lovely. also sometimes gas station diners are god tier, crowley's opinions on the matter are his own.
> 
> i forgot to mention it in the first chapter but the fic title is from Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen. chapter one's title is from New Inventions by IDKHOW and this chapter's title is from Eternal Summer by Fall Out Boy
> 
> thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting i love you all dearly. come chat with me on [tumblr](https://ivory-line.tumblr.com/)


	3. I Tend to Freak Myself Out, Can You Come a Little Closer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: crowley briefly worries about encountering homophobia but no homophobia occurs

Tracy is on Crowley’s doorstep. Her pink lipstick matches the vibrant pink t-shirt she’s wearing. The t-shirt has the words “Take it to State!” printed on it in gold lettering with a gold glittery basketball below it. She’s smiling and holding a glass pan with tin foil wrapped over the top.

Crowley is wearing a crumpled white undershirt and dark wash jeans that desperately need a run through a washer. He’s leaning against his door frame and his sunglasses are doing a poor job against the midday sun.

“Hi, sugar,” she says, “I decided to come ‘round to see how you’re doin’.”

Tracy is smiling and Crowley is sleep deprived. It’s a Sunday and he had assumed the entire town would be at church. He’d heard the bells at the crack of dawn and he’d been up since then. He had stood in his kitchen and tracked the progression of the sun as he choked down a protein bar. He had imagined all the little characters of this town all dressed up in their Sunday best and standing on the church steps. In his mind’s eye he saw them shaking hands and kissing cheeks and asking after absent members. There’s a preacher, of course, to complete this tableau. He’s loud and vehement and unwelcoming. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was glad to be missing it or sad to not be enduring it.

But here Tracy is. She’s smiling on Crowley’s porch when she should be gossiping over lunch with ladies in ugly hats.

“Thanks,” he says, just a touch awkward. Tracy sucks her teeth and pushes past Crowley into his house.

“I brought a Dorito casserole. My bingo girls can’t get enough of it,” she tells him as she bustles through to the kitchen. She yanks open the fridge and mutters a very quiet, “Oh, Lord.”

Crowley stands in his vacant living room with his hands in his back pockets. Tracy takes a look around and dusts her hands off.

“Bless your heart,” she says and Crowley gets the vague notion he should be offended. “It’s empty as all hell in here, sweet pea. There’s a consignment over in Clinton that sells furniture real cheap.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Crowley tells her. He’s not sure if he’s ready to commit to furniture just yet, but he appreciates the tip all the same. Tracy must read some of that in his expression because she strides up to him and grabs his upper arm and squeezes.

“Now, I know our sweet Ezra gave you the goings-on over at the church but he’s not the most sociable. There’s a casino in Clinton, Newt and Anathema like to go on Fridays. There’s also a bar about ten minutes south of here.”

Crowley’s interested in the bar, at least. He’s not too sure about the casino, something about leaving his money up to chance doesn’t sit right with him. He has the spare dollars to spend on beer, though, so he gets more specific directions from Tracy. They exchange numbers and she texts him the details. His house feels too quiet when she leaves.

* * *

  
It’s Friday and it’s been a week. On Monday Crowley spends too much time pulling stickers out of his expensive shoes and drives a town over to buy a pair of work boots from a store aptly named Tractor Supply. On Tuesday Crowley stains a button down with oil so he takes another trip for a pair of coveralls. On Wednesday Crowley is depressed to realize he matches Newt. Thursday finds him fighting grackles over his pimento sandwich.

So, it’s Friday. He had spent the day getting far too familiar with a 2005 Mazda and Shadwell had deigned to hover over his shoulder. The old man had alternated between threatening to demote Crowley to whatever a “gopher” is and spitting dip. Crowley is home now and he’s shed his horrible coveralls. He laces up his nice boots and drags his fingers through his fire-red hair.

He pulls into the bar parking lot, though calling it a parking lot is a bit generous. It’s really just a gravel area with stubborn tufts of brittle bushes. Crowley’s car crunches up next to a blue Jetta and he watches a group of men in their twenties shotgun beers from their tailgate. The bar itself is essentially a tin shipping container turned building. There’s a wooden door that’s more suited to an actual home and a sign with absolutely no lighting that says The Dog House.

Crowley is worried. He’s trying not to be, but he’s seen the movies, the television shows. He knows how people like him fair in little country bars. He tries to put his faith in Tracy.

He walks into the bar and it’s so loud. It’s all concrete and tin and every whisper is magnified tenfold. There’s a country song playing from the jukebox that Crowley doesn’t recognize and he doesn’t see any of the people he’s met so far. He elbows his way over to the bar and an aging woman in leather leggings and thick eyeliner gives him the evil eye. The bartender is closer to Crowley’s age. He’s broad and sandy-haired and bearded. He serves Crowley a whiskey neat with a slight smile before digging a White Claw out of the fridge for a college aged girl in riding boots.

Crowley wanders over to the jukebox on instinct with his plastic cup clutched in his hand. He idly presses at the touchscreen and considers digging a bill out of his pocket to queue a song. A strong grip on his arm startles him and he turns his head to see Tracy. She’s wearing a lacey white dress with brown cowboy boots and maroon lipstick smeared just a little on her teeth.

“Crowley!” she giggles. “Look at you! Handsome as anything. Come on.”

She tugs at Crowley’s arm and he goes willingly. Hopefully she’s got a chair somewhere he can slouch in. He’ll happily keep an eye on her purse if it means he can nurse his drink in peace.

She pulls him over to a pool table with faded felt and a wobbly leg. Crowley isn’t partial to billiards by any means, but he winces at the lopsided affair. He takes in the typical stained glass hanging light over the table and notices the yellow light is illuminating an angel.

Ezra has a pool stick in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. He’s side-eyeing a fold out chair that holds a sweater and a purse and more specifically the three men playing quarters on the table next to the chair. He’s wearing a blue gingham button down with faded blue jeans and his key chain is clipped onto his pocket. It should be terrible but all Crowley can see is the way his plump hand is gripping the pool stick.

Tracy drags him all the way over to Ezra’s side. He doesn’t notice her until she clutches at his shoulder.

“Ezra, look who it is!” she exclaims. Ezra turns and starts a little when he sees Crowley. He gives Crowley a slow once over starting at his snakeskin boots, over the skin tight black jeans, the belt buckle, the white dress shirt, and ending at his disheveled hair. Ezra smirks and Crowley nearly crushes his plastic cup.

“Crowley,” Ezra says. He leans his pool stick against the wall and extends his hand. Crowley grasps it and Ezra’s grip is strong without being overbearing. He shakes Crowley’s hand firmly once and lets go. Crowley fights the urge to cling to Ezra and wraps both hands around his cup instead.

“Ezra,” Crowley replies and hopes he sounds cool, “big billiards player?”

Ezra and Tracy laugh and Crowley has to admit this isn’t a promising start. Not that he’s trying to start anything. No, it would just be nice to have a couple of friends to share drinks with at the end of the week. Ezra is blinding when he laughs and Crowley turns his gaze onto the handful of balls left on the table.

“Me ‘n Tracy play pool,” Ezra tells him with a subtle emphasis on ‘pool’, ”every Friday. I can’t say we’re any good, but we have fun.”

“Get Crowley here set up and y’all play a round. I’m going to sweet talk Garrett into another Long Island Iced Tea,” Tracy says. She pats the both of them and wrinkles her nose as she smiles.

Ezra seems resigned as he finishes off his beer. He sets the empty bottle on the nearest table and grabs the pool stick. Tracy makes herself scarce as Ezra deftly knocks the rest of the balls into the pockets in quick succession. Crowley barely has enough time to register the fact that he’s about to make an idiot out of himself before Ezra is shoving a pool stick into his hands and grabbing the stack of quarters off the wooden edge of the table.

Ezra racks the balls and removes the triangle. He waves a hand at the table and leans back. He takes a swig of his beer and his eyes never once leave Crowley.

Crowley quickly chalks his cue tip, feeling self conscious. He bends over the table and is uncomfortably aware of the space his body takes up. He strikes the cue ball and not a single thing falls into a pocket.

Ezra’s face is inscrutable as he pushes off the wall and strides around the table. Crowley backs up and grasps his pool stick like a lifeline. Ezra appears to do some sort of theoretical geometry before he bends over the table. Crowley allows himself a singular moment to appreciate the way Ezra’s ass fills out his jeans, the stretch of his thighs against denim, before he panics and studies the neon of the Bud Light sign on the wall. Ezra strikes the cue ball and makes it look effortless. Two solids sink into a pocket and he repositions himself. Ezra sinks three more solids before it’s Crowley’s turn again.

Crowley would love to blame his poor game on the state of the pool table, but he’s forced to admit he’s simply just terrible at this game. The game is half over before Tracy reappears. She hands Ezra a beer and Crowley tries to see what’s on the label for an excuse to head to the bar himself. She hands Crowley another plastic cup, but this one is a bright orange color. He takes a sip and gives Tracy an appreciative look.

“Sex on the beach,” she tells him with a wink. Crowley’s cheeks are hot and he can’t help but look over at Ezra as he makes a frankly ridiculous shot and sinks a ball.

The game ends and Ezra wins, obviously. Crowley’s competitive streak is nowhere to be seen because he can’t help but smile as Ezra makes the winning shot. Tracy coos and soothes Crowley with a heavy hand in the middle of his back. She all but forces Crowley and Ezra away from the table as a man with spurs on his boots and a very pretty blonde girl on his arm claims his quarters.

Ezra and Crowley take the table where the quarters game had been held as Tracy begs off to queue songs on the jukebox. It’s awkward at first. Crowley takes the tiny straws out of his cup and folds them up as small as they can go.

“So, Crowley,” Ezra begins. Crowley sighs. He just wants to have a drink and unwind. He doesn’t want to deal with a beautiful man asking horrible questions. “Marlow? Really?” he says with a wince. Crowley laughs because how can he not? He’s been asking himself the same thing ever since he passed through city limits.

“What’s wrong with Marlow? Great town. No complaints from me.” Crowley swallows half of his drink in one go. It’s easier to feel the burn than to detail all the ways he’s trying to force himself into a niche that doesn’t belong to him.

“I didn’t say there’s anything wrong with Marlow,” Ezra says, smiling like this conversation means something. Like it’s not just small talk. Like it’s not just two strangers in a bar making a desperate attempt at conversation. “I just don’t understand why you’d leave Chicago to come here.”

Crowley freezes with his cup halfway to his mouth. He is absolutely certain he hasn’t told Ezra, or anyone else for that matter, that information. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of Crowley’s stomach. He shoots a glance at Ezra and sees his smile start to dim.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was a sore subject. I saw it on your driver’s license and thought I’d ask,” Ezra offers with an awkward sort of shrug. Crowley relaxes and waves off the apology.

“Just needed a change of scenery,” Crowley lies, “couldn’t stand the winters up there.”

That comment sparks an intense debate on whose weather is worse. Crowley is sure he’d rather deal with Oklahoma’s storm season over below freezing temperatures, which makes Ezra laugh at him. The conversation flows smoothly from there. Crowley learns that Ezra was born and raised in Marlow and that he loathes football and loves books. He learns that Ezra’s funny and that he’s a little bit silly, especially after another couple of rounds. He learns that when Ezra calls him _my dear_ it makes his heart beat uncomfortably fast.

When the bartender announces last call, Crowley realizes he’s had more to drink than he intended to. He ends up getting a ride home with Ezra and Tracy in Shadwell’s beat up old pickup. Shadwell grumbles the whole way but does nothing to stop Tracy from leading a sing-along to the classic country music station. Crowley can’t help but laugh at Ezra’s attempts to clap on beat.

Shadwell turns onto Crowley’s street and Tracy abruptly stops singing. The street is lit up with blue and red patrol lights. Tracy says something, but the uneasy feeling is back and Crowley doesn’t hear her.

Shadwell parks in front of Crowley’s house and Ezra is the first one out of the truck. Crowley follows him even though he’s headed right for Hastur, who Crowley is less than keen to interact with again. Hastur’s counterpart, Ligur if Crowley’s remembering correctly, is standing next to him and speaking into his radio.

“What’s happened?” Ezra asks as soon as he’s within polite distance of the patrol car.

“It’s the Tanner’s kid,” Hastur responds, “she’s missing. Never made it home from summer league.”

“Second one in as many days. Beelze will have to call County in, put a curfew in place. Somethin’ just ain’t sittin’ right,” Ligur adds.

Ezra looks over at Crowley, his features nearly indistinguishable in the flashing lights. Crowley finds his disquiet mirrored back at him. He wonders what lurks beneath Marlow’s surface, unsure if he actually wants an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, this chapter decided to fight me and i ended up rewriting the whole second half of it. i like this much better so i can't be too salty about it.
> 
> in case anyone needs some clarification: a "gopher" is slang that means someone whose job is to fetch things. when Ligur says Beelze will have to call in County he's referring to the County Sheriff's Office. little rural towns often only have a few officers, if any at all, so County usually steps in on anything above a beat cop's pay grade. no one likes it when County gets called.
> 
> chapter title is from Scrawny by Wallows
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](https://ivory-line.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all! so this is much more angsty than the stuff i usually write. i'll be updating the tags as a i go and i'll also put anything chapter specific in the start notes. i promise y'all a happy ending, our boys will be just fine by the end.
> 
> make sure to check out the rest of the fics in the Mystery AU collection then hop on over to the OTP collection. we are spoiled for talent!
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](https://ivory-line.tumblr.com)


End file.
